


I'm so mean I make medicine sick

by the_dala



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Requited Unrequited Love, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 17:08:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5594167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_dala/pseuds/the_dala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>	“Go back to bed, man. This is what we in the more civilized corners of the galaxy refer to as a ‘sick day,’ and it is to be appreciated and enjoyed.”</i>
</p><p>Finn has never been sick before, so Poe takes care of him when he comes down with a stomach bug.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm so mean I make medicine sick

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Muhammad Ali

Finn is still finding the 'early to rise' habit hard to break, but Poe doesn’t expect him to be up at 07:00 the night after five rounds and three games of sabacc in the pilots’ lounge. Sure enough, the only answer to his knock is a weak groan.

“Rise and shine, teacup!”

“I hate you,” Finn mutters, throwing his arm over his eyes as Poe switches on the light. He drops down onto the bed with a bounce, earning himself a death glare.

Poe’s amusement is tinged with a bit of guilt - he’d been paying pretty close attention to their overall consumption, knowing he was going toe to toe with a total lightweight, but Finn looks a lot worse than he was expecting. His eyes are bloodshot and bleary, he’s sweating under the thin coverlet, and the arms raised to push Poe’s hands away from his face hold a faint tremor. This isn’t the kind of nagging hangover that Finn could push through while enduring the inevitable teasing from his fellow recuits; he’s not going to be good for anything until at least noon.

“Here, take this - you already threw up, right?” Finn nods and Poe considers it a good sign that it landed somewhere he can’t smell it. “Drink all of that, fill it up again, take the painkillers and go back to sleep.”

Finn blinks owlishly at him. “No, I have a training session.” 

“Yeah, with me, and I’m canceling it.”

“But -” 

He starts to struggle upright. Poe puts a hand to his chest, trying not to be distracted by how solid and warm those muscles feel beneath his palm. If he’d worked up the nerve to make a move last night this could’ve all gone differently - he might even be curled up in bed with Finn right now, soothing his headache away with less conventional methods. But for reasons he still doesn’t entirely understand, he missed the shuttle on that one.

“Go back to bed, man. This is what we in the more civilized corners of the galaxy refer to as a ‘sick day,’ and it is to be appreciated and enjoyed.”

Finn glances over his shoulder at the door like he expects General Organa to come marching in to drag him to muster. “You sure I won’t get in trouble?”

“Positive.” The genuine worry behind Finn’s raspy voice makes it hard for Poe to keep his own voice light, but he manages. He tugs the blanket back up and pats Finn’s arm. “I’ll check on you in a couple of hours.”

Finn still looks uncertain but he nods, clutching the water bottle like a security blanket.

When Poe finishes up his training session (he focused on basics of gunnery since Finn already has a leg up in that department), he grabs some soup and bread from the canteen and heads back down to the barracks. This time he’s greeted by silence, and he elbows the door controls open with a frown.

Finn’s asleep, but twitching restlessly - if anything he looks worse than he did this morning. Poe sets the tray down and gently shakes his shoulder. 

“Finn? You okay?”

Barely lifting his head from the pillow, Finn croaks, “I threw up the water. All of it.”

“But you made it to the ‘fresher,” Poe points out, “so that’s good.” He lays his hand over Finn’s brow. Definitely a fever , though not a high one. “How do you feel, buddy?”

“Bad,” Finn says, sighing at the touch. “Achy. My head hurts. And I couldn’t keep those pills down.”

Shit, Poe knows exactly what this is, and it isn’t a hangover - although the drinking probably didn’t help.

“I think you’ve got a virus. This bug went through half the base a few weeks ago, that’s why our anti-emetic stock is so low. And you probably don’t have a lot of immunities built up, come to think of it - you get sick much when you were with the Order? Cold, flu, rancor pox? That’s a nasty one, let me tell you.”

Finn fails to acknowledge this mediocre crack. His face screws up as he tries to remember. “I never got sick, I don’t think?”

“Never?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “The Destroyer was kind of a closed system.”

Huh. He’d been injured, of course, and badly, but they’d just gotten a new shipment of bacta and the med team was able to repair most of the damage to his spine and nerves before bringing him out of the coma. Coming down with a common stomach virus is a little different.

“Well, the best thing for you is rest. We can try to get some more water down you in a little while.”

Finn’s fingers clench and unclench on the blanket. “‘We’? I’m sure you’ve got somewhere to be, Commander.”

Poe waves his hand in dismissal. “Oh, they can do without me for one day. I’m not leaving you here to suffer in silence.”

Under normal circumstances Finn would probably put up a fight, but Poe can see that this short conversation has already drained what little energy he’s got. He acquiesces without another word of protest, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow.

Poe eats the double lunch - no sense in letting it go to waste - and settles in the room’s sole chair with a datapad. Finn’s been reading up on galactic history since his defection, so Poe scrolls through the collection until he finds a nice punchy one about the Clone Wars.

He wakes Finn a couple of hours later with a refilled water bottle at hand, but it comes right back up five minutes later. Poe just barely positions the bin in time; Finn’s too weak to hold it steady. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, bent over with his arms on his knees.

“Not your fault, buddy.”

He retches a few more times, bringing up bile. It sounds painful and exhausting and Poe just wants to wrap him up tight and make it _stop_. He compromises on rubbing the back of Finn’s neck.

Finn tucks his legs up, hugging his knees. Poe’s hand hovers over his commlink, but he knows med bay would just send Finn right back to bed. It’s only been a few hours, after all, though it feels a hell of a lot longer.

“Hey, I know something that’ll help.”

He can feel Finn’s gaze tracking him to the small, spotless ‘fresher. Finding a washcloth exactly where one would expect it (as opposed to Poe’s place where it would be throw into a corner), he runs it under the cold tap.

“My granddad used to do this for me when I was sick,” he explains, sponging the sweat from Finn’s forehead. He runs the cloth gently over Finn’s cheeks and ears and neck, dipping under the collar of his shirt. “Feel good?”

“Mmm.” Finn’s eyes are closed in rapture. His hand circles Poe’s wrist and Poe pauses, but Finn doesn’t push him away. It seems he just wants to hold on. A grin spreads across Poe’s face, one that he knows the squad would never let him live down if they could see it. Jess and Snap and Karé give him enough shit as it is; how Finn hasn’t noticed their constant winks and witty single entendres, Poe has no idea.

He doesn’t seem inclined to turn Poe loose even in sleep, not that Poe is complaining. He glances at the chair and settles back against the headboard instead, Finn’s pillow left of his hip, telling himself that his tailbone was getting sore anyway.

At some point he nods off, because he starts awake to Finn’s agitated shifting. According to the chrono on the wall it’s getting on toward night. Poe tells his grumbling stomach to pipe down; he’s gone without for a lot longer in the past.

“You need to puke again?” Poe brushes his temple, noting that his temperature seems about the same. 

Finn shakes his head, though his expression is pained. “Can I - could you get whoever’s in charge of disposals, please?”

Poe cocks his head. “What?”

“Disposals.”

Whatever he’s talking about, Finn is pretty worked up - he’s still clutching Poe’s arm with surprising strength and looking up at him with those big, earnest eyes. Poe feels a little bad about thinking he’s cute when he’s in distress, but he is.

“I just thought maybe procedures would be different here, so if there’s a pit nearby I’d rather go in the ground than the airlock. I know you probably don’t have any control over it, but if I could talk to someone on that detail...”

“Sorry, I don’t understand -”

Poe abruptly realizes what he’s asking and the smile drops off his face so quickly his jaw aches. Any humor he’s found in the situation so far vanishes.

“First of all,” he says, and the growl in his voice makes Finn shrink a little but he can’t help that, “you’re not talking to anybody because you’re not dying. You have a virus and it feels awful - I know it does - but you’re going to be _just fine_ , you hear me?”

Finn nods slowly, though Poe can see from his expression that the message isn’t quite getting through. He turns on the mattress, taking both of Finn’s hands in his own. 

“And second...are you telling me that when stormtroopers die, they’re either thrown out an airlock or buried in some mass grave?” 

Swallowing hard, Finn’s eyes search his face. “That’s not how things go here, is it?” 

“No, Finn, that’s not how things go here, or pretty much anywhere else in the galaxy.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “When someone dies we have a funeral, and everyone who cared about that person comes to pay their respects. Sometimes the person is buried, sometimes they’re cremated - hell, I’m sure there are a lot of cultural customs I don’t even know about, including funerals in space or at sea. But the point is, we gather to say goodbye. There was a memorial service for General Solo while you were still unconscious.” 

“Oh.” Finn’s feverish gaze is locked on Poe’s eyes like a targeting screen. He’s been to a lot of funerals and memorials over the years - his mother, his grandfather, so many fellow pilots and fighters and friends - and he imagines Finn is bearing witness to some of those old scars. He hopes so, anyway. 

“And there’s no one in charge of it all. The person’s family takes care of them.” 

He spots his blunder just as Finn asks, “What if they don’t have a family?” His voice is small but it seems to echo in the room. 

“Then their friends take care of 'em,” Poe says firmly, giving Finn’s hands a squeeze, rubbing his thumb over the fine bones of his knuckles. He wonders if Finn needs him to say it, because he will, and gladly - 

But Finn squeezes back, the tension on his face finally easing. 

Poe lets out a breath, feeling as though he’s finished his last strafing run on Starkiller all over again. He leans back and plucks Finn’s pillow out, turning it over. Finn lays his cheek down on the cool side. 

“Do you want me to grab a medic to scan you and promise that you’ll start feeling better really soon? 

“Nah,” says Finn, his eyelids already beginning to slip closed. He’s still got Poe’s left hand closed in his own. “I trust you.” 

A knot tightens in Poe’s throat. He’s still not quite sure what he did to deserve that trust, but he’s learning that there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to keep it. 

Finn mostly manages to sleep through the night. Poe dozes off and on, keeping watch. He coaxes some water down Finn’s throat around dawn and gives a silent cheer when it stays down. Finn’s fever breaks right around then. Poe gets off the bed and stretches, watching his breathing level out. 

“We should be out of the woods now,” he says, wincing at the kink in his neck. “Finn?” 

Finn doesn’t stir. It’s because he’s sleeping peacefully at last but it reminds Poe of his stillness when Rey brought him him back on the _Falcon_. 

Poe leans down until he can feel Finn’s steady breaths on his skin. Before he can think better of it, he presses a soft, dry kiss to Finn’s lips. 

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs. 

BB-8 was powered down overnight but he’s full of questions when Finn gets back to his quarters. Poe can hardly blame him once he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror; his hair is a wreck, he’s pale as a sheet and his eyes are drawn in dark circles. He splashes water on his face while explaining everything to his concerned droid (he leaves out the kiss; he doesn’t need BB-8 getting any ideas). Apparently his story is not up to satisfaction, as BB-8 follows him down the hall to the mess, but at least his selection of broth, crackers, and plain rice meets approval. 

He must’ve been gone longer than he thought, because Finn has gotten up, showered, and changed the sheets in the meantime. But he’s clearly still in recovery; he’s back in bed, and his smile and his hands waver a bit while Poe sets up his meal. 

“I’m okay, BB-8, really,” Finn says, watching the droid putter back and forth on the floor. Poe hides a grin, knowing that Finn can’t understand BB-8’s scolding about how it’s already hard enough looking after one human who shows little regard for his own health and now he’s got two to worry about - three counting Rey, and don’t think he’s not in constant contact with R2-D2 about all the whacks she takes in training. “Wow, he sounds really mad at me.” 

“He’s just a worrywart. Go on, scoot,” he says to BB-8, pointing at the door. “Give Threepio an update for the general, would you?” 

An important mission is just about the only thing that could serve as a distraction, and BB-8 reverses course with a final whistle of farewell. 

“I’m gonna be thanking you for awhile, so just get used to it,” Finn says, spooning some broth into his mouth. 

Poe picks at the sandwich he brought for himself. “Oh, come on, it wasn’t a big deal.” 

Finn raises an eyebrow as he demolishes one package of crackers and starts on another. “Poe. You sat up with me all day and all night, helped me to the ‘fresher, fluffed my pillow, let me cling to your hand, didn’t mind when I threw up on your shoes -” 

“It was just a couple of drops.” 

“- and assured me that my insides were not in fact liquefying and that I was not actually dying.” He lays the tray aside and pats the mattress next to him. 

Poe sits, but keeps his distance. In the face of Finn’s gratitude - sincere, kind, platonic - he feels ashamed at the liberty he took with a sick, slumbering man. And on the _mouth_ , what the hell was he thinking? The cheek or the forehead he could at least pretend was brotherly. 

“It was the first time you had gone through that,” he says, shrugging. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t make sure you were okay?” 

“You also kissed me.” His tone is even, betraying nothing about his feelings; his face might, but Poe can’t look at it just now. 

“I - you were supposed to be asleep,” Poe says, picking at a loose thread in the coverlet, feeling an unfamiliar swell of panic in his chest. 

Finn’s hand appears in his field of vision, covering his fidgeting fingers. “I let you think that, because I felt too tired and gross to kiss you back like I wanted.” 

The panic starts to dissipate, transmute into a flutter of hope. Equally ridiculous reactions, because he’s thirty-two years old and a commanding officer in the Resistance and if he had any dignity at all he’d just get up and walk out right now. 

“So I took a shower,” Finn adds helpfully. “And brushed my teeth.” 

He looks at Poe, his eyes bright and his handsome face so suffused with light that Poe thinks maybe, after a childhood spent staring at the ancient tree in his front yard, he’s got a bit of a touch with the Force after all. 

He lunges forward at the same time Finn reaches out. Their teeth bump a little; the jostled tray spills crumbs all over the bed. But Finn’s hands are tangled in his hair and Poe’s arms are tight around Finn’s waist and Finn is snorting with laughter as he tugs Poe down, so that second kiss is pretty much perfect. So’s the third kiss, and the fourth, and the fifth, and after that Poe loses count. 


End file.
